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WY Leung

TRIAL AND ERROR

TRIAL AND ERROR
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May 13, 2003
What does it mean when a red exclamation point in a circle lights up on your billboard? It's really hard to tell when everything seems to be working just as they should and black smoke isn't coming from anywhere. And depending on the brand and model you're cruising in, the possibilities could just be endless. I should have known. The amount of doubt I've had all along was too great to have been disregarded. It was definitely negative omen, a neon yellow arrow pointing the opposite direction. In my opinion, 90 minutes of Ashtanga yoga is too hardcore to be considered a trial session, for a beginner who only wants to take advantage of a freebie anyway. (Though I would remember to blame it on the lack of air circulation in the 30'x30' room with the aroma of perspiration off seven other people for as many more times as I would have to talk about this the rest of my life.) In everyone else's opinion, a person as physically retarded as I've proven to be should not be as headstrong as I try to be. The preliminary yoga my religion teacher demonstrated in high school was no valid representation of the real stuff. Chanting "om" in the lotus position just doesn't begin to tell you the work involved in the sport. Approximately 50 minutes into the session, in the midst of an attempt to have my chin touch my shin while sitting with my "left heel up against my anus" (I'm quoting the instructor here) and my disjointed arms locked behind my strained back, it happened. The red exclamation point in a circle flashed before my eyes, along with the Big Dipper. My fingertips began to tremble at 30 when they should have been at 90 degrees to the floor. My legs fell asleep four seconds into locking a lotus. My heart was beating at the rate an electronic toothbrush swivels. Every part of my body except my mind was telling me to stop. I broke down at precisely the 89th minute of the 90-minute session. Not only were all warning lights on my billboard lit and flashing. I could see a roadblock set right in front of me, and sirens were wailing in my head. And yes, black smoke came from the cracks of the hood. None of these went away for the next three and a half hours. Each and every part was punishing me for not having stopped. I should have watched the rpm. I should have stopped for gas. I should not have made that last sharp turn. I have yet to recover from this state of shock I'm still experiencing from the traumatic episode. I have officially had a close call. Should I give out the impression that yoga got me all Zen anytime in the near future, don't be fooled, I'm just dazed.
 
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